


Perdita

by crypticorvid



Series: Tales from Esempe [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Found Family, Phil Adopts Yet Another Son, Pre-Canon, Realistic-ish Minecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28012947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crypticorvid/pseuds/crypticorvid
Summary: Tommy is so alone and so cold, then he isn't.-Basically an exploration of how Sleepyboisinc became a family and little snippets of Tommy's childhood.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit & Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Tales from Esempe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051805
Comments: 2
Kudos: 208





	1. Perdita

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! First work in this fandom so lets get some shit out of the way:  
> A) This is entirely focused on the RP characters in the SMP, it has nothing to do with the actual people and I'm going to keep it as separate as possible!  
> B) The world I'm writing them in is semi-realistic with magic, so it has elements of minecraft in it - for example there are resurrections in place of respawns - but will be closer to a fantasy world than a magical block world.  
> And C) If any content creator expresses discomfort with this fic or fics similar to this one, I will immediately take it down without question!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for clicking in and I hope you enjoy! Comments and Kudos are appreciated but not required! ^-^

His mind is foggy as he huddles beneath an oddly shaped spruce tree, maybe a side affect of the howling blizzard, or something much worse. It's odd, he has no idea where he is, or even how he got here. He thinks that if he wasn't in such pain, perhaps that would bother him, but he can't be sure. 

Distantly he notices that his tears are freezing to his cheeks, he hadn't even realized that he was crying. The snow is like knives beneath his feet, somehow his skin becomes an even brighter red as he settles himself beneath the tree in a futile attempt to hide from the screaming storm.

Gods, he's so  _ cold _ . He wonders why this had happened, why on earth he was in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a thin shirt and trousers. ‘ _ Maybe I was abandoned here,’  _ He ponders, ‘ _ Am I a bad person? Is that why I’m out here?’  _ The thoughts stir an unpleasant nausea in his chest and he quickly comes to the conclusion that he can't have been  _ that  _ bad a person if he felt such sadness at the thought of being abandoned. 

There is little else for him to do but think as the storm rages on, and so that’s what he does. He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and comes to the conclusion that red is his favorite color, the hand-made tag sewn into the back of his shirt tells him that perhaps his name is Tommy; he finds that he quite likes the name and leaves the tag where it is. The calluses on his hands lead him to decide that he is a warrior, that he had come to be here while protecting . . . someone. 

These little conclusions calm him down and he manages to stand once more as the winds begin to calm. After all, his name is Tommy and he was a warrior, and warriors didn't give up just because of a little snow. He steels himself against the cold as best he can and pushes out into the relative darkness. Tommy immediately notices something new on the horizon; warm firelight emanates from a small farmhouse just across the clearing. Tommy grins and begins to sprint, he knows that his legs will give out before he makes it, but he also has a feeling that he is very good at getting people’s attention. 


	2. Reperio

Phil heaves a sigh as another loud thump sounds against the front door, setting his book aside and stretching leisurely as he stands. He glances over his shoulder to make sure his sons are still asleep before he cracks the door open just enough for him to get a good look. 

Almost immediately he throws the door open with little regard for the deafening crack of wood on wood, a powerful flap of his wings propelling him forward into the snow. There, almost completely buried in a snowdrift, is a boy who couldn't have been much younger than his sons. The boy’s flesh is deathly pale, his nose and ears so bright it was almost comical, but his eyes are wide open and follow Phil as he rushes toward the kid. 

“Holy shit,” Phil breathes, gathering the kid into his arms as gently as he can, “The fuck are you doing out here?”

To his surprise, the kid lets out a laugh that rattles his chest and grins up at him, “Dunno.” With that, the kid’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he goes limp in Phil’s arms, his energy apparently spent. 

Frantically, Phil tucks the boy close to his chest and wraps his wings around them in an attempt to warm the kid up, walking as quickly, but carefully as he can back to the house. There, peeking around the door frame are his sons, their eyes wide with concern and fear. Phil takes a deep breath and ushers the pair back into the warmth of the living room, shutting the door gently behind him. 

“Wilbur,” he calls softly, “Do me a favor? Go put the kettle on the stove please.” The younger of the twins nods frantically, his dark hair bouncing dramatically with the sheer force of his nodding, and darts into the kitchen. “And Techno,” the second of the twins stands at attention, “I need you to go find me some of your old clothing, something warm please.” With a quick nod of his head and a dramatic flick of his bright pink ponytail the boy rushes up the stairs. 

As gently as he can, Phil lays the boy on the recently vacated couch and wraps him in one of the near hundreds of blankets folded nearby. A hand on his forehead tells Phil more than enough of what he needs to know, the kid had been in the snow for far too long. He does his best to make the kid comfortable and settles himself in a chair nearby, content to wait until the kid wakes up to ask any questions. 

Phil finds himself running a hand through the kid’s straw blonde hair absentmindedly, humming part of a lullaby that he only half remembers, the same way that he often calms Wilbur down. The kid makes a soft noise, one not unlike a puppy, and pushes closer to the touch as he burrows deeper into his blanket. He gives a soft chuckle as Wilbur pokes his head into the room brandishing a steaming pot of tea and a trio of mismatched mugs, his eyes wide and overly cautious.

“You can come in Wil,” he says quietly, “He's still asleep.”

“But I made him tea,” the boy pouts, “It's gonna get cold.”

Phil chuckles again and nods, “That's true, but we can drink the tea and then make some more when he wakes up. That okay?”

“I guess,” Wilbur huffs, carefully placing his teapot and mugs on the center table before clambering into Phil’s lap. “I hope he likes his tea black, I couldn't reach the honey.” 

“Well  _ I  _ like my tea black, so it's okay.” Techno says as he trots down the stairs, a bundle of old clothes clutched to his chest. “I have no idea what size he is, so I just grabbed everything.”

True to his word Techno’s pile of clothing contains just about every shirt, pair of pants, and brightly colored hoodie that Phil had ever bought for the boys. After doing a quick once-over of the pile, Phil picks out a white and red long sleeve shirt, and a pair of jeans for the kid. He folds them carefully and lays them on the center table, right next to Wilbur’s still steaming pot of tea. 

Pleased with the little set up Phil stands and stretches his wings, “Alright boys, you know what time it is.”

Immediately Wilbur groans, “But dad, what if he's lonely when he wakes up!” He winds his little hands into the hem of the older man’s shirt, “I’ll be super quiet! I promise!” 

Phil doesn't have the heart to point out that yelling right next to a sleeping child is in fact  _ not _ being quiet, and instead lifts Wilbur into his arms with a gentle  _ ‘shush’.  _ He holds a hand towards Techno with a raised eyebrow, which the boy takes as more of an order than a question and obediently takes Phil’s hand. “I’ll keep an eye on him all night, don't worry.” Chuckling as Wilbur folds his arms and pouts again, he adds, “I’ll come get you the moment he wakes up. Sound good?”

“Alright,” Wilbur huffs, avoiding his father’s eyes as he’s tucked into his bed. “I  _ guess. _ ” 

“There's a good boy,” Phil says with a grin. He presses a soft kiss to Wilbur’s forehead and bids the younger twin goodnight.

He does the same with Techno, who simply gives his father a once-over and whispers, “Be careful.” Apparently satisfied with his warning, the boy rolls onto his side and promptly falls asleep. Phil snorts, accustomed to Techno’s rather odd way of speech, and pats his son on the shoulder as he leaves the room. 

To his surprise, the kid is sitting upright when he re-enters the living room. His eyes dart around the room frantically and he worries the edge of a blanket in his pale fingers. Phil pauses for a moment at the base of the stairs, tucking his wings close to his body so as to not startle the poor kid, before ducking into the living room with a gentle smile. 

“It’s good to see you awake.”


End file.
